


Just a Little Longer

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Desperation, M/M, Watersports, Wetting, bottom!freddie, topatoly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say that he almost pissed himself the moment he saw the familiar symbol on the men’s bathroom door would not be an exaggeration in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Little Longer

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon prompt on tumblr.

To say that he almost pissed himself the moment he saw the familiar symbol on the men’s bathroom door would not be an exaggeration in the slightest.

Freddie has been cursing himself for hours now – since before breakfast this morning, actually, when Florence had sarcastically asked him if he was ready. (Did he sleep enough? Eat enough? Remember to put his deodorant on? Go potty?) It had been irritating then, but sometimes he forgot that Florence’s goal in life wasn’t to aggravate him and that _sometimes_ (most of the time) she was actually looking out for him, and had actually been considering consequences and solving problems for him like  _she_ was the world chess champion, or something.

(Actually, if women were allowed anywhere near the circuit then she would have kicked his ass on international television years ago – but he doesn’t think about that.)

He limps into the bathroom and toward the urinals like he’s been shot in the foot – moving too quickly would  _probably_ not be in his best interest – already fumbling with his zipper, frantic.

He stops short.

Why. Why. Why:

(a)    Were there only  _two fucking urinals_ and

(b)   Did  _Sergievsky_ have to be using the least menacing one?

“Outta my way, I’ve gotta piss.” He shakes his head, determined not to let the Russian’s presence bother him. It hadn’t across the board – not beyond a hugely inconvenient, far from camera-friendly boner in the middle of the match, anyways – and it sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him now. He had to  _go._ His cock ached, oversensitive as he drew it out, staring at the wall so that he didn’t have to wonder if that was  _actually_ a piece of shit clogging up one half of the drain.

“I thought that American men were supposed to be big,” Sergievsky commented, glancing sideways and downwards as though this was the most natural thing in the world. His accent was infuriating in any context, but Freddie suddenly found himself graphically imagining the ways he could get away with murdering him with just the chess pieces.

“Is it socially acceptable to examine other men’s penises in Europe, or are you just a faggot?” He snaps, realizing with horror that he can’t bring himself to let go.  _Goddamn communists and their-_

“Americans are so touchy.” He rolls his eyes and turns back to his own, much cleaner urinal (bastard) to tuck himself away and zip back up. (Freddie is decidedly  _not_ disappointed that he doesn’t get a chance to look first.) “I was not  _examining_ it.”

Freddie blinks incredulously. “What the hell do you call it, then?” He squeezes his dick, shifting uncomfortably, painfully aware that he’s going to explode if Sergievsky doesn’t get the fuck out of there and let him piss in peace. “Look, I’ve gotta piss, so if you could just –“

“Did you wait too long?” Sergievsky cocks his head, raising an eyebrow like he’s  _allowed_ to ask that shit, like that’s fucking  _okay_ and Freddie seriously wants to clock him. He curls his lip, redfaced and irritable as he feels another spurt traveling the length of his cock, squeezing again frantically and turning back to the ceiling. He exhales, slowly, uneven.

“Jesus fucking Christ – I will do  _anything_ if you just  _let me piss._ ”

Sergievsky grins, looking down again. Freddie is pretty sure he’s never seen the Russian anything other than stoic before and it doesn’t bode well. “Oh?”

 _“Fuck.”_ He groans, squeezing his eyes shut as his bladder throbs again. He can’t concentrate. Florence was never going to know about this. “Yes. Jesus. Yes, just get out.”

“Let me fuck you.”

“ _Fine.”_ There’s really not any use pretending that he’s not interested, right now – Freddie doesn’t really know what he’s saying, anyways, just gritting out frantically as he rocks on the balls of his feet. “Just go, just  _go,_ I’ll let you after –“

“I did not mean after.” The grin morphs into something more like a smirk. It looks much more at home on his face, not that Freddie would know, because Freddie can’t do anything but stare at the urinal with increasing desperation, struggling to breathe. He jumps when Sergievsky’s hands rest at his waist, coming up close behind him, close enough that he can feel – oh.

“Is there something wrong with you? It’s called patience, learn some –“ Freddie starts to twist, ready to fucking kill this man no matter how attractive he is, and finds himself dragged into a wet, needy kiss.

His fingers clamp around Sergievsky’s collar immediately, shuddering as they leave his cock – he’s not even sure how he has the capacity to be getting hard right now but it’s twitching in interest now as well as desperation. This is it, then, he really is going to explode. He groans as Sergievsky’s fingers slide up beneath his t-shirt, squeezing his eyes shut and opening his mouth to him helplessly as he’s pressed up against what he’s fairly certain is a stall door.

“I have to –“ he tries to say, a note of desperation echoing back at him, but Sergievsky is staring him in the eye and taking him in palm, and he chokes off at the feeling of another man’s long, smooth fingers around him. Stroking him. Squeezing him –

“It will not take long.” Sergievsky’s voice is low and breathless, his eyes blacker than usual with the way his pupils have dilated. Freddie reaches up to bury his fingers in the mess of dark curls around his head, tugging urgently, already half-hard and when did that happen? “I’ve wanted a chance to do this –“

“You could have just  _asked_.” Freddie Trumper does not whimper. He reminds himself of that when the ache in his bladder makes his thighs tremble, the head of his cock so sensitive he wants to cry when Sergievsky runs a nail delicately beneath it. What is he doing?! It’s sex, it’s supposed to be quick and dirty doesn’t he know there’s no fucking time for foreplay right now?

“It will not take long,” he repeats, and surges back in to kiss him, light this time and before Freddie can even get a taste he’s moved to his ear, kissing at the lobe and biting and then sucking it into his mouth with a sound like a moan so deep in his throat Freddie’s eyes roll back into his head a little, sure that his knees are going to give out soon with the way his cock is throbbing. “Mm…” He groans, sucking a patch of red marks beneath his ear, as if that’s all he’s wanted to do all day. His hand is still moving at the same leisurely pace – it’s agonizingly slow, to Freddie, who can’t even decide what he wants more now.  _Let me come, let me piss._ He can’t even form the words. He tries.

“Let-“ he begins, voice high and hoarse with the tingle running up the length of his cock again, agonizing. Shit, shit, no. “Just-“

“I have lube,” Sergievsky promises, his free hand keeping him pinned by the shoulder to the stall door beginning to slip lower, feeling along his hips. He moves closer to let Freddie feel him, the damp bulge in the denim rubbing slowly up against his thigh. “Mm… I am going to make you come.”

Freddie shuts up.

He works Freddie’s jeans down to his thighs and pulls away to appreciate the sight, stroking him from base to tip and feeling the vein on the underside of him throb with need. He shoves his hand into his pocket, digging for something, licking his lips all the while in anticipation. Freddie shuts his eyes and concentrates desperately on staying hard enough that he won’t lose it, his breathing ragged. It occurs to him for a crazy moment that some fortunate reporter could walk in here any minute and get the shot of their life and he probably wouldn’t notice.

He does notice when Sergievsky’s fingers nudge between his legs, stroking there teasingly. “Relax,” he murmurs, leaning close again to suck too-gently beneath his ear. The heat of his breath makes Freddie tingle; he lets out a choked noise.

“ _Please_ just let me –“ But Sergievsky sucks his lower lip into his mouth, then, to silence him and nudges his finger in up to the first knuckle and Freddie, with a shudder, feels himself dribbling what can only be piss against the other man’s jeans. His face darkens in humiliation as he clamps down on it again, and around his fingers as well. Sergievsky pauses.

“I do not mind,” he tells him, prodding at the trembling pucker with a second finger. “Relax.”

Relax. Re-fucking-lax. “Just  _fuck me,”_ he snaps, pushing back on his fingers. It doesn’t even hurt in comparison to his bladder. Sergievsky’s fingers are cold and slick; Freddie’s cock is hot and damp and throbbing in his hand, thrusting into it in increased desperation. “Please. Please-“

“Mm…” Sergievsky can’t seem to stop mouthing at his neck and it’s going to drive him  _mad,_ and Florence will know, and the fucking press will know, but he’s  _not going to piss on him_ he’s not, he can take this. He stretches three fingers inside of him, now, curling experimentally upwards and Freddie is certain it’s over, his face gone maroon. Sergievsky withdraws his hand at last, rubbing lube onto his cock leisurely. “Are you ready, then?”

“Jesus Christ,” Freddie groans, kicking his jeans down his legs violently, his bladder spasming again and making him go still. Unperturbed, Sergievsky grabs the backs of his thighs and – “What are you doing?!”

Sergievsky doesn’t bat an eye. “I am fucking you.” He lifts him, surprisingly easily, and uses the wall to balance his weight – Freddie wraps his legs tightly around his waist, shaking so hard he thinks he actually might fall apart. He opens his mouth to tell him, wait, stop, because he can’t hold it much longer and bent like this his bladder is being compressed and he can’t –

“You are so – agh.“ Sergievsky’s eyes fall shut, briefly, as he thrusts inside, just the head of his cock but it’s so thick and Freddie pants, sweat beading helplessly on his brow. He’s going to lose it. He’s going to lose it. He’s going to –

“I can’t – “ he whines, grabbing onto his shoulders for dear life. Fucking hell. A spurt escapes him, wetting his white shirt.  _Dammit._ Panic sets in and he shakes his head, frantically. “Ahhh- I need - can’t - I’m going t-to-“

Sergievsky rams forward, groaning against his ear as he fills him, rubbing directly on that nerve. “ _Yes,_ yes.”

Freddie can’t handle the stretch. He clenches down around him and makes a strangled noise as his bladder gives, his cock giving a final, valiant twitch of resistance before he’s pissing, gasping for air, humiliated tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he wets between them like a fucking child, drenching the both of them. He doesn’t watch his shirt yellow, or his pants on the ground, or the fabric of Sergievsky’s dress shirt as it darkens and clings to him. Sergievsky just groans again and gives a renewed series of thrusts, nails digging into the American’s hips.

“God, yes,” he hears breathed into his ear and as the stream begins to die, leaving him hot and wet and flushed, he feels his cock begin to fill again with desperate arousal. “Mmph-“

He doesn’t even bother to ask. Sergievsky is hard up inside him, thrusting with vigor, breathing shallowly into his ear as the scent of sex and salt cloys the air around them. With a shudder he tips his head back and clutches him closer, tugging his hair, whining. “Fuck me.  _Ugh.”_

He does so eagerly, hard and fast and  _fuck me, fuck me, Jesus-_ and later when he’s not so close to coming, fisting his piss-damp cock between them, Freddie will be really fucking amused that he’d found the Russian’s kink without even trying.

Those stains are never going to come out.

Maybe he’ll just let Sergievsky keep them. You know. As a souvenir.

It’s better than an autograph, anyways.


End file.
